"Are on my side."
"They reflect."
"Onto what?"
"The Cherokee Purples." He gestured at his display. "The color temperature will affect them."
She looked at his tomatoes. She looked at her lights. The Edison bulbs were a warm 2700K, which if anything would make the deep red-purples of the Cherokee varieties look more saturated and beautiful, but she was constitutionally unable to say this to him right now.
"Wow," she said.
"Wow, what?"
"You must be powerful."
Finn raised an eyebrow.
"I mean you must have the ability to turn the sun on and off." Ivy pointed at the sun overhead, which shone directly on his display.
Finn sighed and turned back to his truck.
Ivy continued her setup, bulbs shining brightly.
The morning settled into its rhythm. The market was fuller today. Word was getting around, or possibly the clip had something to do with it. She'd doubled the brown butter batch as promised and added a new item, an olive oil cake with whipped honey ricotta that she'd been developing since Cincinnati, and by nine-thirty she had a line three people deep.
In the lull before ten, she reached into her crate and produced four Cherokee Purples.
She'd bought them on her way home last night. Not from Finn, of course. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. But the corner store had some of his produce for sale. They were aesthetically perfect: the deep purplish-red, the irregular shape, the slight shouldering at the stem. She'd decided to use them as backdrop elements in a post this morning. Against the terracotta of her banner and the warm wood of the display shelf, they were extraordinary.
She arranged them in the front left corner of her table, where the light hit them best.
"Those are mine," came the deep male growl from the truck beside hers.
"I bought them. They're mine."
"They're my variety. On your display."
"They're produce I purchased legally and am using as styling elements, which is?—"
"They're not decorations."
A customer materialized between them with the timing of someone completely unaware they had walked into something. Mid-thirties, notebook in hand. She looked at the Cherokee Purples on Ivy's display and then at the Cherokee Purples on Finn's.
"Are those the same tomatoes?" she asked.
"Yes," Ivy said.
"No," said Finn. "Mine came straight from the farm this morning."
The woman turned to Ivy.
"Mine came from his farm some time in the last few days."
"It's an Appalachian heirloom," Finn continued. "Dating to the early 1800s. The color's a result of anthocyanin in the skin over the red flesh. You get the purplish-green shoulder, the brick-red interior. Low acid, high sugar, complex flavor profile. Best eating tomato in existence."
The customer looked at Ivy expectantly.
Ivy looked at the tomato. "Did you know there's actually a debate about pronunciation? Most say to-MAY-to."
